


You & I

by nightdotlight



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Homophobia, Homosexuality, Short Story, The Author Regrets Nothing, the ayanokoji fic nobody wanted but I wrote anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 11:31:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18164648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightdotlight/pseuds/nightdotlight
Summary: “Look at her, Tamaki. Aesthetically perfect in every way."At the conclusion of her last year attending Lobelia, Tamaki Suoh’s eldest cousin is determined to rip the rug right out from under his feet and secure her own inheritance from their conservative grandmother.It would have all been perfect, had not a visit to Ouran Academy’s cultural exposition thrown a proverbial spanner in the works, disrupting the machinations of her future.A very beautiful spanner, called Seika Ayanokoji.





	1. “At Ouran”

My skirt is red, the fabric floating around my thighs with every step I take.

 

I'm one of many, part of the scarlet cloud as it floats toward Ouran Academy; led by the Zuka Club, we move as one, elegant figures clothed in crimson and albicant cloth.

 

Standing on my tiptoes, I spot immediately the willowy form of Benibara, short brown hair ruffled by the slight breeze as she walks towards the rosy school. Walking, I decide, is not the right word for how she moves; even her gait is ethereal, body gliding over the ground.

 

Looking around, I take in the sight, so beautiful as to be painted. Green hedges border every pathway, plants both native and exotic filling every patch of soil. Passing one, I suppress a smile as I notice the plant- a lobelia. Sumptuous hues of lavender and lilac practically overflow, specks of ivory bursting from the ground, reaching for a place among the existing blossoms.

 

Beside me, a long limb extends, plucking from the plants a single flower. I start, head jerking to see who it is as the same hand presents to me the delicate bloom, petals surreally vivid against their pale skin. I look up, unsure of the motive behind this act- who in Ouran would approach a student of Lobelia Academy?

 

Seeing the culprit, I relax.

 

Tucking another flower into my hair, Benibara beams down at me, coaxing from me a genuine smile in return. Her reaction is quite dramatic: abruptly, she launches into a speech, waxing poetic about how my expression could substitute the sun or bring warmth in the fiercest blizzard, playing up every angle. Catching her glance towards me, I giggle at the fiercely emotional spiel, coaxing from her the beginning of another, before she stops short.

 

At her sudden movement, I spin around, only to behold my junior as she supports a young boy clutching a paper bag. Beneath the surface of the brown material, bulky shapes are visible, all of them with the same dimensions.

 

It's quite out of character for Benio to show kindness to a boy; then, as she speaks to the youth, my confusion is resolved.

 

"It'd be a shame for any harm to come to that cute face of yours, young lady."

 

Inadvertently, my hand covers my mouth in surprise, realisation flooding me as I hurry over to the pair and offer a hand to the girl seated on the path. She takes it, fingers cold as she steadies herself before brushing down her trousers, dismissing any dust that may have gathered on them from the stone path.

 

A single sunbeam catches my eye, reflecting off the surface of my watch. I am suddenly reminded of the culture exposition, hastily saying farewell to Benibara and her new companion before setting off towards the building's main square.

 

Entering the space, the rest of the clubs from Lobelia are already there, arranging the partitions as we planned; against the oak floor, the pale grey paint used looks even more like limestone, light hitting our work at just the right angle.

 

This isn't the first time I've been to Ouran Academy's cultural exposition, but it's the first time I've been the president of one of the contributing clubs. My club, which focuses on international culture, was selected to lead this exhibition, assisted by the art and cooking clubs.

 

After some debate, we decided to simulate Venetian culture, something both exasperating and relieving for me. On one hand, my father grew up in the said city, so little legwork was required- but in comparison, I've spent a considerable amount of my life there, therefore nominating whether I like it or not as our prime researcher, a role which frustrates me to no end. It also has the side effect of inspiring a newfound respect for Aoi, who is usually responsible for the information we receive, none of which is ever found to be wrong.

 

Said girl strolls over from where she previously stood, black bob remaining perfectly still even as she pulls me over to where the café will stand, passing me a table.

 

Just minutes later, the bell rings- we hastily run around, checking for any discrepancies in detail, before freezing in our designated places.

 

Students are pouring outside- the exposition has begun.

 

The following hours are immeasurably tiring, maintaining an air of openness and friendliness with every customer, controlling precisely my diction. I never fail to speak Italian on command, even demonstrating the process used to make coffee to any interested visitors. Placing me with the coffee was a good idea on the others' part, I realise as a customer compliments the authenticity of the brew I made: having legitimate heritage in a country makes people far less likely to be critical of your knowledge of its culture.

 

About halfway through the day, I am approached by a pair of boys in third year, both of which wear the distinctive cobalt blazer of Ouran, although the diminutive size of one suggests that tailoring was needed in order to make it fit. In contrast, his companion towers over me, the bow on my chest level with the buttons on his jacket.

 

"Hey! Do you think we could get a coffee please?"

 

I am utterly floored by the lack of restraint in the short blonde's voice, his informal tone almost insulting. Still, I obligingly grind the beans, asking which type of beverage they prefer before filling a pair of cups with a strong brew and handing both over.

 

Cheerfully informing me that he and his companion are named Honey and Mori respectively, the shorter then proceeds to saturate his coffee with sugar cubes, neglecting to add cream as he sips tidily at the drink. Mori, to his credit, adds absolutely nothing, instead politely draining the cup of scalding black coffee.

 

Curiosity overtakes me at that point, and I give in to the urge to ask them which club has brought large swarms of girls to peek, squealing, through the open doorway. As eager as if I had offered him a large chocolate cake, Honey is the first to respond, speaking with great gusto about the 'Host Club', where young women gather to be in the company of the school's most attractive and admired boys.

 

"You should come along later today or tomorrow! I'm sure Tama-chan would really like you!"

 

I stop dead in my tracks at Honey's words.

 

"Tama-chan?" I question, "As in, Tamaki?" At his nod, I continue, "Tamaki Suoh?"

 

His eyes, a shade of brown identical to the coffee he just finished, widen. "Yeah! How did you know Tama-chan's real name?"

 

"Oh," I deflate slightly, "he's my cousin." My posture returns to its rigid state, the familiar determination infiltrating once more my consciousness. Although Tamaki is in prime position to inherit the assets held by our grandmother, it has more recently seemed that her plan has changed. The companies may now be handed down to me instead of my younger cousin, something which I am divided over. Since my discovery of this development, I have been torn as to whether I should feel guilty for stealing his inheritance, or actively try to obtain it. While Tamaki was born out of wedlock, my parents were married for several years before I was born, giving me a decided advantage over him.

 

Realising that Honey has been talking all this time without my attention, I jerk back to earth, blindly agreeing to his statement. He doesn't seem to notice, instead bouncing off to continue his duties in the Host Club.

 

Watching his retreating back, I slip back into my routine of service.

 

Hours later, the chime of a bell rings, signalling the end of the school day. By now, the majority of students have gone home, leaving me to check over our empty exhibit. It would be a lie to say I'm disappointed- little of the conversation I have had today was in any way meaningful, Mori and Honey diamonds in a sea of coal.

 

Walking outside the makeshift café, my gaze is immediately taken by the most beautiful figure I have ever seen.

 

She's gorgeous. My heart flies to my throat, palpitating wildly.

 

Long red hair cascades down her back, straighter than her posture- against the sunshine of the yellow dress, the colour is even more intense, vibrant beyond belief.

 

I'm utterly transfixed.

 

Turning towards me, she meets my eyes, and my pulse stops short.

 

Now she's walking towards me.

 

"Hello there," her voice is rich, a smooth purr working its way deep into my heart, "who might you be?"

 

"My name..." my brain takes a second to reboot, still lost in her slate-grey eyes, "oh, my name is Masako Bianchi! Principessa," I internally cringe at the nickname, "what is yours?"

 

Luckily, I don't seem to have driven her away with my awful attempt at flirting- quite the contrary. A charming smile present on her face, she seats herself at the counter I just tidied, quickly voicing her request.

 

"All day I've been hearing about the amazing coffee here, but I wasn't able to get some. Please could you...?"

 

"Yes," I nod, moving past her to grab two cups, "so, what does my mystery customer like to drink?"

 

My joke is met with a tinkling laugh that stirs butterflies in my stomach, "A latte, if at all possible."

 

I oblige; for a few precious minutes, I am able to wallow in my guest's presence, working on autopilot as I hand her the drink before filling a cup with water for myself.

 

Silent, we sit together, the quiet only broken by the occasional sound of a cup on a saucer. Then, as I stand up to wash the china, the sound of ripping paper surprises me- I spin around to witness whatever caused such a racket, only to witness my customer hurriedly scribbling something down on a piece of lined paper presumably torn from the notebook I can see in her open bag. Looking up, she waves.

 

And then turns around, and leaves.

 

Later, when I'm sure everything is tidy, I open for the last time the door to the café, crossing the small room to grab my bag. About to leave, I remember the paper she left, quickly grabbing it before locking the door.

 

Sheltered from the slight breeze inside my family's car, I open up fully the note, letting my eyes run over the words until my curiosity is sated.

 

Seika Ayanokoji

XXXX-XXX-XXX


	2. “At Lobelia”

Facts and figures swim before me on the sheet of paper, but all I can think about is the folded piece in my coat pocket, the precious words and numbers adorning it. Even as Benibara seats herself next to me, I can't pay attention to anything else, the beautiful redhead I met last week occupying completely my thoughts.

 

"Meet anyone special?" It's meant to be a tease, I know that, but still my body freezes up at my junior's words, eliciting an excited squeal from her.

 

Almost immediately, she sobers up at the look I shoot towards her, chestnut eyes thoughtful.

 

"Masako, you need to accept this," she tells me, warm hand on mine in a comforting gesture, "It's not going to change anytime soon."

 

"It's not that, and you—" I pull my hand away, resting my chin on the limb— "know it. Fact is, I can't keep my family if I come out."

 

"So what? You're going to deny yourself freedom in favour of keeping a secret from people who would eventually get over it?"

 

"Yes," finality laces that last syllable, cutting off the discussion abruptly. Benio knows I want the companies, knows my mother's family is fiercely conservative; coming out to them would not only alienate me, but destroy any chance I have of inheriting or establishing a business. While I want to be free to date whoever I want, it's a virtually impossible outcome.

 

I can't remember when I first knew I wasn't straight, just that the boys at school- and the ones I was later set up with as I left my childhood behind- were never attractive to me. For years, I sat with countless potential matches, endured manifold bland dates in search of a man that would please my picky nature, but it was always the girls I met that gave me butterflies, my seniors at Lobelia making me blush and giggle. Nobody knows this aside from Benio, of course: my parents forbade me from joining the White Lily League, disgusted as they were at the thought of their only child being an associate of homosexual women.

 

Not to say that I haven't been in a relationship, of course; I've dated a great number of boys, disregarding attraction in favour of a solid cover. As lucky as I am, none of my previous male companions have pleased my grandmother, who still searches for the perfect business partner.

 

Feet hooked around the chair legs, I find it hard to focus in the following classes, mind preoccupied with just how long Seika's eyelashes looked, surreally beautiful.

 

"Miss Bianchi," I look up at the sound of my name, noticing for the first time the teaching assistant at the doorway, "come with me please."

 

"Yes, ma'am." I gather up my belongings, shouldering my satchel as I leave the classroom. The leather strap digs into my shoulder as I follow the staff member, briefly running my thumb under the material to reposition it as we walk, noticing with some satisfaction my immaculate nail polish, the shade perfectly matching the uniform's skirt.

 

Entering the reception, I immediately notice the small figure seated on one of the plush seats. All thoughts of Seika pushed to one side, I instinctively check my hair in the window, one hand deftly assuring that my bun is still in place while my back straightens even more, focus returning to my visitor.

 

Seeing me, my grandmother stands up, beckoning me over with a single hand as her eyes scan my appearance; by her lack of complaint, I judge that there is nothing wrong, instead following her out of the school building. Reaching a black limousine, we are helped into the vehicle by a chauffeur, who proceeds to climb inside himself before driving away, wheels silent on the smooth tarmac.

 

Ankles together, I remain silent as I sit- my grandmother, too, remains quiet, my nerves escalating the longer we travel. After what feels like an eternity of staring blankly at my knees, the vehicle stops; looking outside, a large building towers over us, ivory stone both graceful and imposing, beauty resplendent.

 

Following my relative, I ascend the spotless steps, my pristine uniform unobtrusive against the flawless marble, ruby skirt vermillion in the sunlight, like blood on snow.

 

Cool air brushes against my skin from the lobby as I enter the building, moving to stand behind my grandmother wordlessly, each step I take breaking the room's overwhelming silence. After exchanging a few words with the receptionist, she leads me once more into an adjoining room.

 

I am inclined to gasp at the sight before me, but repress the reaction. Light pours through the windows that dominate an entire wall, unblemished glass twinkling slightly. Craning my neck to look upwards, I trace the delicate golden patterns winding over the albicant ceiling, how they seem almost organic in design. Art has alway been an interest of mine, so my gaze does not waver until my focus is dragged away by, back to reality.

 

Sitting on a chair opposite my grandmother, I rest my hands in my lap, eyes fixed upon the clean white tablecloth. At a single gesture from my relative, waiters bearing exquisite china bear over to us a tea set, pouring a drink I immediately recognise as Lady Grey into the rose-patterned cups before placing before us a small jug of milk and a bowl of sugar, the latter artistically fashioned into small flowers, blossoms of heliotrope and mauve almost too beautiful to touch. Receiving permission from my grandmother, I grasp with the tongs a single rose, silver-tipped petals leaving a trace of glitter in my tea even as I pour milk in too, stirring once before I bring the cup to my lips.

 

The woman opposite me just watches me closely, brown eyes dissecting my every movement. Under her thoughtful gaze, I feel naked, setting my teacup down as quietly as is possible.

 

Taking a deep breath, my grandmother speaks to me for the first time.

 

"Child," I meet her eyes, waiting for her to continue, "as you know, Tamaki is currently in line to inherit the Suoh estate, yes?"

 

Realising she expects my to reply, I nod, "yes, grandmother."

 

"Given his illegitimacy," she explains, "I have my reservations about such an act. What would become of the family name if a bastard child—" I internally wince at the term— "were to be named as the successor? Such thoughts have led me to reconsider.

 

"Yuzuru and Tamaki, following in the fashion of my late husband, have always been naturally capricious, my daughter was always a shrewd woman; a trait she seems to have passed down to you. I am loath to entrust a fortune to someone who may squander our work away without realising- which is why I've decided to name you as an heir. You, child, have never disappointed me, which is why I have decided on such a reward."

 

I gape at her for a moment before collecting myself: yet, my eyes are still wide as I sip at my tea, brain struggling to process the information. Eventually, sense returns to me.

 

"Thank you, grandmother," my voice is breathy with surprise.

 

For the rest of the afternoon, I remain quiet, still reeling from the news.

 

Still, as I lie in bed that evening, one thought continually surfaces, refusing vehemently to quell its violent shrieking into my consciousness.

 

 _What_ _about_ _Seika?_


	3. “At Home”

A couple of uneventful days later, I realise that I still haven't called Seika.

 

Seated at my desk, my eyes remain on the worksheet before me as I reach for my phone, left hand still resting on the wood as my fingers remain woven around the ebony wind of a pencil. Even as the warm device makes contact with my skin, I continue to focus on my work, leaving grey lines of graphite on the snowy paper. While I have practically perfected my kana, kanji has always been an oddity to my eyes- abandoning with a frustrated sigh the Japanese assignment, I turn my eyes towards my other homework, mind relaxing upon confrontation with a more familiar alphabet.

 

Boredom quickly reaches its peak, prompting me to ignore my studying in favour of something, anything else. Alerted by a small buzz to my phone once more- a notification from my Twitter account has lit up the screen, hence the noise- I grasp the piece of notepaper bearing Seika's phone number, hastily typing the digits into a fresh contact.

 

Now all that is left is to actually text her. For what feels like hours, I pace around my bedroom, carefully devising the perfect opening message, before copying it out and sending it.

 

_Hey_ , _this_ _is_ _Masako_ _from_ _last_ _week_.

 

Lying like a starfish on the pristine white bedcovers, I cover my face with my hands, peeking hopefully between my fingers until the device's screen is set alight once more. Within a split second, I have crossed the room, reading with greedy eyes the reply I have received.

 

_I_ _thought_ _you_ _weren't_ _ever_ _going_ _to_ _contact_ _me_ , _coffee_ _girl_.

_What's_ _the_ _occasion?_

 

A small smile spreading across my face at the nickname she has gifted me, I reply hurriedly, body practically floating at the euphoria of knowing that Seika Ayanokoji- possibly one of the prettiest girls I've ever seen- replied to my text messages. All thoughts of my grandmother forgotten, I allow myself to become engrossed in the conversation, feeling truly relaxed for the first time in a while.

 

_Do_ _I_ _really_ _need_ _one_ , _principessa?_

_I_ _just_ _wanted_ _to_ _talk_ _to_ _the_ _girl_ _with_ _the_ _pretty_ _eyes_ _tbh_

 

She pauses in her response- in my imagination, I picture the same smile she sipped her coffee with lighting up her face at my compliment- but at the same time, dread collects in my heart of her recoiling, shocked and disgusted by my obvious flirting. Blood running cold, I ponder for a single terrified second whether I've made a terrible mistake.

 

Then another message pops up on the screen, and I exhale in relief, tense shoulders dropping.

 

_Same_ _here_.

 

The butterflies aren't just in my abdomen, reading her words: they've escaped, fluttering in every inch of my body. Cheeks warm, I ask whether she has Twitter; upon receiving her username, I send mine before switching to the app and tapping once the 'follow' button.

 

_You've_ _got_ _quite_ _an_ _impressive_ _feed_.

 

_Thanks_ , _principessa_ , _you_ _too_. It's sarcastic, I know- we both have rather bland accounts, our followers generally people in the same social circle, tweets carefully formulated as to sit on the fence as much as possible.

 

We chat aimlessly for the remainder of the evening, each savouring every last piece of information about the other. Seika's favourite colour, I find out, is light blue- she has a legitimate claim to the title of princess due to the royal status of her ancestors, and she loves espresso.

 

I'm eventually called down by my parents to eat; reluctantly saying farewell to Seika, I abide to their wishes.

 

Sitting in the lounge after the meal, my parents switch on the television, switching channels until they reach the news. I tune out the background noise naturally, preferring to daydream- that is, until a single sentence catches my attention.

 

"Today, in a monumental leap forward for LGBT activism, Taiga Ishikawa won a seat in the Toshima ward's assembly," the presenter recites, short black hair so neat as to seem plastic.

 

My eyes immediately flick upwards to fix on the screen; trying not to seem to interested, I keep my head down despite my overwhelming curiosity. However, the voice of the newsreader is quickly drowned out.

 

"How disgusting." It's funny, how two words can instantly ruin your mood. As fast as I can, I withdraw from the situation- yet as hard as I try, I cannot ignore the words spilling from my parents' mouths, their fearless expression of hatred, how they echo the words of my grandmother when I once naively asked for her opinion.

 

As soon as I can, I excuse myself, retiring immediately to bed.

 

Lying under the soft covers, I fiddle with the cotton hem of my nightdress, willing back the tears already collecting in my eyes in favour of focusing on the sensation of fabric against my fingertips. Even as pangs of emotion strike my heart, I refuse to shed yet more tears, instead frantically searching for a solution.

 

Benio. I grasp for my phone, shaking hands typing in my passcode as I click on to her contact, typing out a frantic message. Lucky as I am to have such a dependable friend, the reply is swift; I can almost hear the voice of my junior as she asks what is wrong, concerned for my emotional state.

 

Salty water threatening to break free from its confines and trickle down my cheeks, I explain, a number of messages on my part filling the phone screen.

 

Her text back is instantaneous, tone scathing towards my family.

 

_They_ _don't_ _deserve_ _your_ _tears,_ _Masako_.

_Love_ _between_ _women_ _is_ _beautiful_ , _not_ _disgusting_ \- _people_ _who_ _deny_ _that_ _love_ _are_ _the_ _awful_ _ones_.

 

Impassioned speeches have been Benio's forte for as long as I've known her- no matter what she speaks about, my junior is naturally convincing, her velvety voice never failing to elicit emotion from her listeners. It's this quality that distracts me from my sorrow, almost hearing her voice as I read the paragraph she sent me.

 

By the time she has to sleep, my melancholy has dried up with the tears I failed to shed, although my envy of Tamaki remains entrenched within my consciousness. Once more comfortable with my being, I close my eyes, wishing into my pitch-dark bedroom that Seika will follow me into my unconscious dreams tonight, just as she does my waking ones.


	4. “At Ayanokoji’s”

Glancing at my watch, I lean against the brass gates, burnished metal digging into my back through my clothes.

 

Warmed by the sun's gaze upon my form, I feel a contented smile spread across my lips, caressing with my gaze the soft autumnal shades of amber and a darkly burnt sienna; colours as rich and deep as the most expensive velvet done the most justice through their contrast with their medium, the wrinkled skin of ageing leaves stretched over their brittle skeletons reminding me for a brief moment of my grandmother.

 

Closing my eyes obstinately, I repel the thought. I don't want to spoil such a precious moment with notions of my looming future.

 

Even without visual stimulation, the beauty of the scene does not go unnoticed to me- soft clips of sound filter through my ears, leaves dancing across the smooth tarmac a reminder of the collages I used to make with rainbows of tissue paper, the spectrum of colour I traded for my family's approval.

 

Cold fingers trace my jawline, trailing down my neck even as the breeze's attention is deserted to the abandoned leaves lying lazily on the ground, before switching back abruptly to fiddle with my hair, sliding over my scalp in a caring motion: the comfort it brings quickly morphs into uneasiness as the same entity slithers under my shirt, wreathing around my torso- a serpent, motivation an enigma. Instinctively, my eyes snap open, zipping up my jacket to banish the wind.

 

Just in time, it seems; the gates of Ouran open even as I watch, the silence of the motion a boast of just how much money the school has. For a second, the world is quiet, the proverbial calm before the storm out of place against the comfortable atmosphere- the still air and comfortable sunlight coaxes instead of forces me to turn around.

 

In that one moment, everything is peaceful.

 

Then the doors of Ouran Academy open, and the pane of glass between me and reality is shattered.

 

From the building erupts a tidal wave of students, the incredible sight second only to the cacophony it accompanies. It seems that all one thousand students have decided to exit the school at the same time, their conversations assaulting my eardrums as an indescribable swell of sound. As they grow nearer, the volume only increases, a tsunami about to break.

 

Still, I refuse to move, weathering the noise as a cliff does a storm, waiting wordlessly. For a brief second, I glance down at the pavement and the leaves; then, as I look up, my eyes meet Seika's.

 

Blowing a lock of rust-coloured hair away from her face, she briefly drops eye contact as she makes her way over to me through the swarm of students. Heat inadvertently rises to my cheeks as I watch, sunlight catching the soft rosy glow across Seika's cheekbones as she reaches me.

 

Taking my arm, she leads me over to her car; a classy vehicle, its glossy paintwork gleams enticingly in the sunlight like a star offset by the immense void of night. As always with automobiles, I am unable to recognise the manufacturer's design, instead electing to enter immediately after my companion. Bending over to set myself down upon the leather seats, my eyes adjust to the relative darkness as compared to the amber glare just beyond the metallic boundaries of the chassis. Turning my head, I take in the view- the coal-dark leather seats, the light grey of the ceiling, the gleam of immaculate silver accents.

 

It is as if I have stepped into a twenties silent movie; the world seen in black and white, even the noise from outside is muted. For a second, my eyes are forced to adjust to the lack of colour, my ears ringing ever so slightly from the silence- then, as the engine begins to purr and the familiar sensation of movement overtakes my body, the debilitation is gone. Turning my head, I catch Seika's eyes as she turns away, red colouring her cheeks.

 

Before long, I find my eyes drawn to the window, leaning against the glass to watch the scenery as it rushes past. Something fixates me on the blur of colours: unable to look away, I let my consciousness sink into the smeared beauty. The roads we take are ones with which I am not familiar, and I cannot bear to let any detail slip past me- even as the sky darkens and rain begins to blur the image, I cannot bring myself to tear my gaze away.

 

It is in this way that the journey passes, the hypnotic rhythm of raindrops on metal keeping my thoughts at bay, my mind sunk so deep that I don't notice Seika's reflection in the window, her eyes fixed on my body just as mine are fixed on what lies just beyond the curtain of glass.

 

When the car slows for the last time, the quiet rumble of the engine dissipating, the spell cast over me is finally broken. Stepping outside, I am almost instantaneously soaked to the bone by the downpour, Seika's chauffeur hurrying over to us with an umbrella and a few muffled apologies, the latter of which I deflect. It was my fault that I didn't wait, after all.

 

Entering her home, my companion immediately takes off her shoes- following her, slight regret that I didn't take more time to view the exterior of the building floods me. After all, the rooms inside are quite exquisite, I realise.

 

Taking care to be respectful, I greet Seika's parents, who seem rather distressed at my drenched appearance. Immediately after our introductions, her mother summons multiple members of the family's household staff, sending me with them to dry off.

 

Ascending the stairs, I am ushered by my guides into a large bathroom, handed a fluffy towel, and told to shower. Slightly confused as to which part of "drying off" involves the exact opposite, I regardless remove my uniform, hopping under the warm water as the two maids wait outside.

 

Once finished, I wrap myself in the towel, picking up my discarded school uniform as I tentatively open the door, only to have said uniform removed from my arms and replaced by a fresh set of clothes. Hair still wet, I pull on the skinny jeans and shirt, wondering where the two waiting outside got clothes in my size at such short notice.

 

Leaving the bathroom, I am accosted for what is hopefully the last time by the maids, who swiftly blow-dry my hair before leading me to Seika. Feet bare, she leads me into her bedroom, red hair swaying mesmerisingly with each step.

 

Walking behind her, my view of her room is obscured until she moves aside- I am forced to stifle a gasp at the unexpected beauty of the room.

 

Sky blue walls stretch upwards; the perfect shade of azure to complement Seika's eyes, although I doubt the effect was intentional. Her room seems to be split into two parts, a flight of stairs separating where we stand and the raised platform upon which her bed must stand. Set into the wall beside the stairs, an open door leads into what seems to be a bathroom, the colour of the wood a few shades deeper than the cobalt walls. Taking my hand, Seika leads me away to a low table set in the middle of what could be described as the lower floor of her bedroom, grabbing a pair of beanbags for us to sit upon. My bag is already here, I note, recognising the brown leather as it rests against the wooden leg of the table.

 

Pulling out our work, we begin to study, sneaking glances at one another as we work. It is hard to stop looking at Seika, but for what feels like hours, I make a valiant attempt at focusing.

 

Out of nowhere, my phone rings, alerting both of us to the full number of sounds surrounding us- the unceasing rumble of rain on the roof, the claps of thunder, the faint voices downstairs. Surprised, I pick up my mobile, holding it to my ear.

 

"Masako?" My mother's voice, ever so slightly disrupted by the storm, is none the less recognisable.

 

"Yes, mother?"

 

Voice apologetic, she tells me that flash flooding has made it impossible for our chauffeur to pick me up, and that my father has called Seika's parents: I am to stay overnight.

 

Hanging up with a farewell to my mother, I relay the information to Seika. She expresses no surprise, but a certain amount of joy at the revelation, a small smile finding its way on to her lips.

 

Not long after, we are summoned downstairs- as we eat, bunched up at one end of the large table dominating their dining room, it is discussed and decided that I shall sleep in Seika's room, her mother reminiscing about the sleepovers she used to have with her friends.

 

At the end of the meal, I hesitantly inquire about what I should wear to sleep.

 

"You can borrow some of Seika's pyjamas," her mother decides, shooing us upstairs with the promise of the servants bringing up hot chocolate.

 

Once we have finished ascending the stairs, I ask the question that has sown doubt in my mind.

 

"Will your clothes even fit me?"

 

Seika laughs, jubilant. "Of course! Those—" she motions to the black jeans and white t-shirt I currently wear— "Fit you, right?"

 

"Wait, these are yours?" I hadn't previously considered the fact that we are practically the same size, different as our faces are. Still, I feel the need to cover my face at the thought that I'm wearing her clothes and didn't realise.

 

Turning around, she smiles at my reaction before handing me some clothing. In my embarrassment, I didn't realise that we had reached her room. Taking gratefully the pyjamas, I dart into her bathroom, locking the door behind me before unfolding what she has given me.

 

Pulling on the shorts and shirt, I notice that the colours are the same as the clothes I was just wearing; the resemblance brings a bemused smile to my face as I leave the bathroom.

 

Meeting the eyes of Seika, I walk over to her, noticing that she has changed also. Handing me a mug of hot chocolate, she sips her own, my gaze wandering to her unpainted nails, then the clock hanging on the wall as it displays the time 21:53.

 

Finishing our drinks in silence, we abandon the mugs on the table before ascending the stairs for the first time together.

 

The roof slopes, Seika's room taking up part of the space in the attic; like the rest of the room, the walls are painted an intense cobalt, but as I look upwards, the ceiling is a midnight blue. Constellations are painted in silver across the slope, the planets of Mars and Venus bronze dots against the velvety colour.

 

Against one wall rest a bookshelf and desk, but I find my attention drawn to the opposite corner, where a metal bed stands covered with fairy lights- as Seika turns off the main lights, they become the sole source of illumination, casting an ethereal glow over the space.

 

An extra duvet and mattress have been left for me- sitting cross-legged on it, Seika pats the space next to her before clearing her throat, breaking the silence.

 

Our conversation lasts long into the night, until everyone is asleep and the only noise remaining is the thrum of rain outside and our own voices. As the time reaches one in the morning, even that peters off into silence. Lying together on the duvet, we listen to the storm, watching the flashes of lightning as they bleed through the curtain. Both unable to sleep, we move around a bit, eventually returning to sitting positions.

 

Bathed in the soft light, Seika looks more beautiful than ever. I don't know what it is that spurs me on, but I refuse to look away, even when she meets my eyes.

 

"You know, principessa," I begin, watching the scarlet blush rise to Seika's cheeks, "Of all the artwork I've seen, you're the most beautiful."

 

The girl sitting across from me shrugs, then smiles, meeting my eyes with cheeks still stained crimson. It's all I need for confirmation; leaning forward, I press my lips to hers gently, waiting for a second before pulling away.

 

Or at least I would, if a hand hadn't pulled my face back to hers, dragging me closer to her body with a small exhale. Undeterred by the cacophony of thunder and rain, I kneel upright in front of her cross-legged form, leaning down to capture her lips again.

 

Seika wears vanilla perfume, I notice, but her lips still taste like the hot chocolate we drank earlier. Moving away for breath, she looks up at me for a second before pulling me downwards, whispering in my ear her reciprocation of her feelings.

 

From that point on, our talk briefly resumes, my request for a relationship with her accepted with conditions. Both of our families wouldn't support us, so we decide to keep the illusion of friendship. Eventually, as it did before, the last dregs of speech pass between us. Laying her head in my lap, a whisper escapes her lips.

 

"I hope you know how cheesy calling me a princess is."

 

"You love it, though."

 

"Yes I do, coffee girl."


	5. “At Ouran”

Face impassive, I try harder than ever to conceal my impatience as we grow ever closer to Ouran Academy. Still, some energy escapes me- my fingers tap my thighs incessantly and my eyes flicker around, unwilling to focus on a single object.

 

Against my forehead, the window is pleasantly cold- as my gaze moves to the wing mirror, I spot the familiar shape of my grandmother's car behind us, her chauffeur staring ahead with a stony expression. Looking back to my family's driver, I notice how her charcoal grey suit matches the pallor of the clouds that swathe the sky.

 

Reading a road sign, I realise that we have roughly half an hour left of the journey. Reaching into my bag, I grasp the book I brought with me and begin to read, quickly losing myself in the story.

 

About three and a half chapters in, I am prematurely forced to close the book, feeling decidedly nauseous as I place it on the empty seat beside me and return to staring absently out of the window, feeling decidedly less restless from before.

 

It's been almost eight months since my grandmother first mentioned that she would name me as one of the heirs of the Suoh estate, but in all that time I have remained in a state of conflict over whether it would be right to even accept what I now will inherit, or whether I even want it, considering it comes hand-in-hand with what may be close to a lifetime of constraint. Even having a secret relationship would likely fail; something like that doesn't stay hidden for long when journalists are already trying to dig up dirt on you.

 

Feeling decidedly deflated, I close my eyes in an attempt to escape the labyrinth of thoughts I have lost myself in- as soon as any progress has been made, however, I am interrupted by the familiar sensation of being stationary.

 

We're here.

 

Nodding to my driver, I exit the car, glancing around as I take the first step towards Ouran Academy. Despite my previous experience with the school's culture club, I am still floored by the sheer magnitude of the event and the effort that must have been put into it. While Lobelia Academy is on par with Ouran in exams, the latter's extra-curricular activities have always been the most extravagant in this country and perhaps the world.

 

Unconsciously smoothing down my skirt, I stand still for a few long moments, nervousness weighing down my bones. Casting my eyes around for something to calm me, I notice something familiar behind one of the immense structures.

 

Stretching towards the sky is a column constructed of amber stone, the tower ending in a virescent pyramid. Face stretching into a smile at the sight of what my father called the "Campanile di San Marco", tranquility rushes back into my grasp and I begin to walk towards the main building, each step echoed by my driver as she follows me.

 

Just as we pass what is advertised as the art club's exhibition, a warm hand on my shoulder stops me short. Turning around, I thank my chauffeur as we wait for my grandmother to catch up, her own bodyguards in tow.

 

Reaching me, she gives me the familiar once-over before nodding in approval, her usually piercing stare almost soft as it reaches my face before her stern expression returns. Flanked by her bodyguards in their coal-dark clothing, she strides past me with an unspoken command to follow. Taking a deep breath, I follow her, ignoring the stir we make in the crowd. Both Tamaki and I uncannily resemble our grandmother, and from the overheard whispers of female students, I can tell that they have noticed how my cheekbones mirror his, the slight wave in my hair that we share; neither of us inherited blonde hair from the Suoh bloodline, but it is still a trait linking us.

 

Refusing to turn my head or divert my eyes, I just follow my grandmother, keeping my face as impassive as possible. Reaching our destination, she stops, giving me just enough time to read the sign.

 

"Ouran Academy Host Club"

 

The unfamiliar instinct to flee floods me, but as if in a trance, I continue to follow the familiar figures in front of me.

 

A loud creak startles me as the doors open, shocking me back into reality just in time. Quickly, I corral my features into a passive guise as the contents of the room briefly turns to acknowledge our arrival; on my face, they will not be able to pick up anything other than bland enjoyment.

 

My grandmother walks forward as I linger on the steps for a moment, rapidly surveying the room before descending just in time to hear a familiar voice.

 

"...I'm so glad you could come!" Tamaki hasn't changed at all- violet eyes sparkling, his voice retains all the sincerity it had the first time we met, seven years ago.

 

"Please come in," he continues in the same manner, earnestly welcoming our relative into the room, "take a seat."

 

Throwing his kindness in his face, our grandmother replies almost instantly, "Don't patronise me," she mutters her second comment, "filthy child."

 

Expression melancholic, Tamaki's shoulders slump as he prepares to walk back to his club; meeting my eyes, he freezes entirely.

 

Confusion decorating his face, he steps forward, gaze darting over my body and face again and again as if comparing my image from the girl he remembers, her lanky frame and messy hair compared to what he sees now. Almost hesitantly, he opens his mouth, but his words are drowned out by our grandmother as she orders him to accompany one of her guests.

 

I don't pay attention to what she's saying, instead deciding to focus on devising ways I can sneak out to where Seika and I agreed to meet.

 

Slipping into the crowd, I turn my head to meet the stares of a group of boys in the same costumes as my cousin wore- I can make out the familiar figures of Honey and Mori, informing me that they must be members of the Host Club. Diverting my gaze, I walk away, fading into the background easily.

 

Around fifteen minutes of evasion later, I send a text to Seika before sneaking away through  one of the building's side doors. In a welcome contrast to earlier, my resemblance to Tamaki causes no buzz as I weave around the fair's visitors to my destination.

 

One more door and a few corridors and I see her.

 

"Seika!" At my whisper she spins around, a smile spreading across her face that mirrors mine as she dashes over to me, pulling me down into a kiss almost immediately.

 

For what feels like forever, we engage in idle chatter, making the most of our time together before it descends into silence as it always does. Leaning her head on my shoulder, Seika speaks up, regaining my attention from trying to estimate the number of portraits hung in corridors in the entirety of Ouran Academy.

 

"Should we do anything for the anniversary?"

 

Confused, I meet her eyes, "hmm?"

 

"In a couple of weeks—" she interlaces her fingers with mine— "we'll have been dating for four months; should we do anything to celebrate?"

 

"Well," I begin, no ideas really presenting themselves to me, "we could—"

 

A voice cuts me off. "That depends if you're still together in a couple of weeks."

 

My blood runs cold as I spin to face the intruder, finding myself unable to recognise them even as  a gasp from Seika tells me that she does.

 

"I wonder," he begins, brown eyes sharp as they rake over us mockingly, "how would your parents react if they knew? How would the press react, for that matter, if they found out Masako Bianchi and Seika Ayanokoji had brought shame to their family names in such a way?" He mock gasps. "It would be the story of the century."

 

"What do you want us to do?" I ask heavily, realising what his intentions are.

 

Blackmail.

 

"Well," he grins, an easy smile that would be quite charming was he not threatening us, "that's easy."

 

Several demands and a time limit later, we're alone again as Seika buries her face in my shoulder, shaking slightly with muffled sobs as a few tears dampen the fabric of my dress.

 

"Who was he?" I ask as she pulls away, wiping her eyes.

 

"Akito Nakamura," she begins, voice trembling, "the son of one of my family's rivals. They're not above something like this."

 

Shushing her, I pull my girlfriend's frame back into my embrace until we have both fully calmed down.

 

We spend the remainder of the day together, discussing what to do. Eventually, a plan is formed amidst the panic and fear; we resolve to carry it out the next day before separating.

 

Walking away, I quickly step into my family's car, ignoring my surroundings in my haste to get home.

 

Although I manage to sleep that night, my dreams are far from peaceful, aftershocks of the decision I'm about to make infiltrating my subconscious.

 

—————————

 

The next day I arrive at Ouran Academy well into the afternoon, having spent a large portion of the morning with Benio.

 

Seika's car pulls up alongside mine as I disembark- blowing her a kiss, I disappear into the crowd in preparation of what is to come, vowing to find my cousin.

 

It is hours later that I see Honey and Mori climbing into a carriage, both wearing extravagant costumes. My earlier search for Tamaki having been fruitless, I resolve to ask them where he is- unfortunately, the only answer I receive is Mori urging  me out of the way of the carriage as it speeds off.

 

That is the last I see of the host club until the late evening, when all seven reappear for the parade and dance.

 

Meeting with Seika one last time before the plan is put into action, I try to memorise every detail of her face.

 

Heart pounding, adrenaline racing through my veins, I stand at the sidelines, watching as Tamaki dances with a young woman. Staring into each other's eyes, a pang of guilt races through me at the thought that what I am about to do may uproot him yet again.

 

The song ends: everything is still and quiet for a long moment as Tamaki stares lovingly into the girl's eyes.

 

Taking a shared, deep breath, Seika and I walk on to the floor where so many steps were just trod, heels clicking of marble.

 

A different kind of hush falls over the crowd as we meet, then lean in, eyes meeting as we know exactly what we're about to do.

 

Then our lips touch.

 

And the silence erupts.


	6. “Away”

Cold air brushes against my bare shoulders from the air conditioning units above, raising goosebumps on the exposed skin as I shiver imperceptibly, not for the first time wishing that I had thought further ahead to bring some form of cardigan or shawl with me to the airport where I now wait under fluorescent white light, every flaw bared by the harsh glare to the crowd around me as I wait, patient despite the cold and the boredom.

 

Surprisingly, the thought no longer leaves me nervous— it hasn't, I realise, for several years since Seika and I fled to the US together from our families in Japan. Almost half a decade it has been, I realise, since we made that fateful decision; and I can see no reason to regret any of our actions.

 

As we had expected, our kiss made quite the distraction: I recall my cousin's face especially befitting the title of 'utter astonishment', eyes wide as our grandmother's fine china saucers and mouth agape. Only the brown-haired girl appeared nonplussed— having been informed by my girlfriend that she was at the academy on scholarship, I found myself less than surprised. Often, the 'world of the commoners', as Tamaki once was known to aptly term it, is far more reasonable and logical than the microcosm Seika and I grew up within, sequestered from the real world.

 

The real world, where we have lived happily together for the past years of our lives.

 

Having booked plane tickets to Paris and withdrawn as much cash as we could from each of our bank accounts the night before, we promptly took advantage of the distraction to leave the school grounds as fast as possible, stopping in the town to change out of our dresses in the restrooms of the train station into more sensible jeans, boots and t-shirts, wiping off heavy makeup and pulling on baseball caps to facilitate a complete change in identity, storing our formal wear in the duffel bags that held our most important possessions.

 

We had sent our suitcases with Seika's driver that morning to the airport with instructions to put them in lockers— she had at that point pulled the keys he had given her out of her pocket, giving me one as we descended the stairs into the room where he had stowed them. I distinctly recall the chill of metal leeching all warmth from my fingers as I opened mine, and our twin laughs— tinged with sorrow, with guilt over our deserting our friends and families alike— when we realised that we had each other's bags.

 

The flight was the next morning, business class at Seika's insistence: realising that we had 13 hours of spare time, we checked into the nearest hotel, me ignoring my girlfriend's grumbles that we could go somewhere more expensive with a giggle as I handed over enough cash for one night.

 

Neither of us ended up sleeping well, instead both surfacing the next morning with heavy eye bags and messy hair, the dry patches on my face more pronounced than usual. We ate breakfast, went to the airport, checked in— all just in time to turn on my phone for the first time in 48 hours and immediately realise that I desperately needed to change my SIM card.

 

Tears collected in my eyes as I read the scathing messages from my parents and grandmother, cruelly typed words spitting at me from the screen that I was wrong, disgusting, awful. Gentle fingers took the device from my shaking hands, sent her own new phone number to Benibara and Tamaki before removing the small card that gave my phone its identity and replacing it with another taken from its plastic cocoon. I set a new number: she dutifully relayed it to those I wanted to remain in touch with. Salt touched my lips; I tried to wipe the tears away, only for my girlfriend to gently smooth the liquid over my cheeks, kissing each softly, assuring me in low tones that 'this was not a mistake, you are not a mistake'.

 

I surged forward, Seika enveloping me in her embrace: we stayed like that, anonymous to anyone looking— just two young women having a rough day, suitcases at our feet, normal.

 

It was the first time I had ever truly felt normal.

 

Nobody even glanced at us on the flight, a whole 13 hours spent sleeping and watching animated films that we had missed out on in our sheltered childhoods in equal measure.

 

Getting off the plane in Rome, we found our bone-tired bodies unwilling to move from the airport only to return in two hours time: instead, we passed the hours in an overpriced café, eating what there was an evening meal but to our jet-lagged brains had to be breakfast.

 

Time stretched out like a satisfied cat: two hours turned to three, turned to four, turned to an overnight delay due to complications with the flight. Our necks became sore from resting on each other's shoulders, our backs protesting until we both gave up, Seika pulling my head into her lap, stroking my hair until I succumbed to my crushing exhaustion.

 

Six hours later, my eyes opened once more at the strike of midnight, looking up to see my girlfriend smiling down at me, shadows under her eyes darker than I had ever seen them but contentment in her eyes. Well-rested, I reversed our positions, buying a blanket from a nearby shop to drape over her when my eyes caught the shivers shaking her frame.

 

For another eight hours, I kept watch, eventually shaking Seika awake by a green-clad shoulder an hour before our flight began to board. Still sleepy, she agreed to watch our belongings while I searched the terminal for a café, eventually finding a chain that sold pastries and hot drinks.

 

Despite the cheap coffee, my aching muscles and the gaping hole in my chest from my family's spite, that morning I felt the happiest I had ever been, far away from expectations and prejudice and the stress of fitting into a role never intended for me as I reached out to remove a stray crumb from Seika's chin as she bit into a second store-bought croissant in anticipation of our destination.

 

Three hours later, we stepped blinking into the warm sunlight of a Parisian afternoon, booking into a nearby hotel before retreating to the streets.

 

We spent a week there before moving on to New York, the interim period spent sightseeing, enjoying our newfound freedom. Online job applications yielded to me a job as a translator for an online news source when I arrived in America; Seika confessed early on in our relationship her admiration for those earning a living online as bloggers or beauty gurus, so we resolved to save up for a camera when we reached America so that she could follow her aspiration as she hadn't been able to before.

 

Seika had admitted culture shock when we were in Paris, but it was nothing compared to New York. Still, when faced with sinking or swimming, we chose to swim, my job at the news source giving us enough money to rent a small apartment on the outskirts of the city, if we avoided unnecessary expenses. I got a promotion, while Seika eventually began writing community articles for the same news source, eventually managing to get a job at the office.

 

We lived in New York for two years before Seika was offered another, better paying post at another office in Los Angeles— eager for a change of pace, we accepted, my request for transference to the same office being put through after we lived almost three thousand miles apart for three months, my girlfriend in charge of buying the apartment on the West Coast while I packed up the limited belongings she had left behind and followed when my own transferral was finalised.

 

The day she arrived home from work to see me sitting cross-legged on the floor, exhausted from lugging my heavy suitcase up the stairs, she cried from exultation, happy tears dripping from her cheeks. It only got worse when I stood up, shyly pulling from my pocket a small blue box.

 

Now, two years later, we both wear rings on our left hands, simple metal bands next to Seika's topaz and my sapphire. As I stand alone in the airport, nerves making my mind race madly, my wife takes my hand, kisses my cheek, whispers comforting words in my ear as she walks up to me, having had to work later than planned.

 

Eventually the crowd parts, and it's only the warmth of the metal on Seika's hand against the skin of my waist just below where my crop top ends that keeps me from running away when I see him, just milliseconds before he sees me.

 

Violet eyes meet green. Suoh sees Bianchi.

 

I barely register my cousin moving before he's tackled me in a hug, the rest of the former Host Club lagging behind as they take in the sight of the bustling airport. His body is warm against mine in the unfamiliar embrace, his face buried in my neck as I register the collar of my shirt becoming damp with the tears he tries to suppress.

 

There's only so much I can do to comfort him through the mess of emotions, relief and anger and guilt and sorrow all mixing into one tearful moment. It's only when he pulls back and Seika's gentle hands wipe my tears from my face that I realise that I'm crying too.

 

We leave the airport, dropping off the club's bags at their hotel before heading to a nearby café that I scouted last week for this exact purpose. It's 11am and none of us have eaten yet, so Seika and I order brunch for the two of us— avocado toast and coffee— while the other seven at our table order their own food.

 

We're there for over an hour just talking: I vaguely register Seika apologising to Tamaki's girlfriend Haruhi, but for most of the interaction, I focus on reconnecting with my cousin the way I was never truly permitted to by our family.

 

He's inherited the companies, is studying business at university, regularly talking to his mother, he tells me. He wants to make his grandmother proud, to prove her wrong about him and me, to (and this in a hushed voice, beckoning me closer) propose to and wed Haruhi, he says. He's happy.

 

He's happy.

 

I smile, congratulate him, wish him luck: only to see the smile slip from his face, growing more thoughtful.

 

"I wish you could come back to Japan," he murmurs, knowing I hear him, "but now, for the first time I think, I realise truly that this is your home, even if Father and I wish that it was with us."

 

Head bowed, he whispers almost as if it is a clandestine secret not to be shared that he has never hated me, neither has his mother or father; if I wish, I may be brought back into the fold— though, he says, eyes crinkling in happiness now, that he can see it's not necessary.

 

Familial love for him and his parents floods my heart, gratitude swelling within me. I make no move to suppress it, instead asking him to convey how thankful I am before wrapping Tamaki in a tight hug that he gladly returns.

 

We both return our attentions to the main conversation: I chatter with Honey and the others, noting how the thinly veiled animosity between my and Tamaki's partners has for the most part faded. Over time, the talk peters out, until Haruhi for the first time notices my and Seika's rings, congratulating us.

 

Naturally, Tamaki is flabbergasted, especially when he learns that we have been married for nearly a year, living together for quadruple that. A friendly atmosphere permeates the air even as we leave the establishment and walk down the street towards the city centre and the rest of our day with them.

 

Three days later, the Host Club bar Tamaki returns to Japan: a week after that, my cousin leaves too after a very successful visit, promising my wife and I invitations to his wedding if all goes well and Haruhi accepts the ring that I helped him to pick out, clear diamond set in white gold. Seika and I wave him off, my right hand warm where her fingers interlock with it on her waist, dark denim jeans rough against my palm.

 

We both have many plans for the future: Seika plans to start a YouTube channel, while I want to continue climbing the ranks of journalism. Looking back at our old lives through the lens of the Host Club, I can't miss it, not when our future is so bright.

 

It seems so long ago that we were just children, running from our families to lands unknown. I think back to the night we left, to the words we shared in a dark train cabin, bodies pressed together to conserve heat.

 

"What now?" I had whispered, cold, afraid for what could lie ahead.

 

"Now?" My girlfriend had replied.

 

"Now, we have a future together,

 

"You and I."


	7. Bonus Chapter | “At the Airport”

Haruhi Fujioka considers herself an expert on the Host Club, having been a part of it for almost half a decade despite her and her friends' graduation, as well as her being outed as one of the female species at the termination of her initial year at Ouran Academy. Even more so, it is one of her fiercely held convictions that she is definitively the world's leading expert on the scientific phenomenon known as 'Tamaki Suoh'; otherwise known by all who met him as proof that aliens did, in fact, exist, and they can be found on Earth— more specifically, on the grounds of Ouran Academy.

 

Despite all this, Haruhi can definitively say that she has never seen Tamaki as nervous as right now, the intensity of his anxiety prompting passerby to unconsciously lean away from the waves of suffocating emotion practically rolling off the boy.

 

Tamaki, to his credit— or detriment, depending on how you looked at it— appeared either completely indifferent or oblivious to the effect he was having on those around him. Too deep in his thoughts, she supposes, having borne witness to the many sleepless nights the thought of visiting his estranged cousin had brought her long-term boyfriend.

 

Eventually, it had been Haruhi who had booked the tickets and the hotel, refusing her partner of the ability to chicken out of something that would benefit both him and his relative, though she barely knew the girl outside of the scandal that she and her partner had caused at the end of her first year at Ouran.

 

Her partner, too, could be called an enigma: while she had known Ayanokoji ('known' being a relative term in this context) during her first year, it had come completely out of the blue for her to ditch her family and prestigious position in society to run off (or elope: nobody was entirely sure) with Tamaki's eldest, female cousin.

 

The cousin, she faintly remembers, having encountered her once alongside the Zuka Club during the cultural exposition; she had worn the uniform of Lobelia, she recalls, accepting that as the reason why they had never officially met. Funnily enough, she also distinctly remembers Honey bouncing into the club room later that day, cheering at Tamaki that he had seen his cousin, who had made him and Mori coffee.

 

As soon as he could, Tamaki had run down to try and see her, but returned crestfallen, citing that Lobelia had left the school grounds.

 

As far as Haruhi knew, he hadn't managed to see her over the days of the exposition, and so the next time she had seen the elusive cousin, it had been on the first day of the Ouran Fair.

 

Amongst the other events of the overall tumultuous day— Tamaki's announced dissolution of the Host Club, for one thing— Haruhi distinctively recalled the shock and horror that had collectively run through the Host Club's bodies when their leader's grandmother publicly announced his disinheritance of the Suoh estate, bequeathing it instead to the girl— no, woman who stood behind her, blonde hair sleek and wavy, the very personification of elegance in a knee-length dress printed with pink roses, pale beige ("nude", she remembered them being called colloquially) heels elevating her stature a few inches above Haruhi, body language crafted perfectly to convey calmness, passive enjoyment.

 

All of it, she had realised as her manicured hands lingered on the satin purse clutched in her right hand, was arranged to elevate her, show her superiority. _Look_ _at_ _me_ , it all said, the rose-pink, glossy lipstick, the porcelain skin, the rare and piercing nature of the grass-green eyes. _Look_ _at_ _my_ _perfection_ , _my_ _demureness_ , _my_ _excellence_. _How_ _could_ _you_ _be_ _anything_ _but_ _inferior_ , _beside_ _me?_

 

Haruhi wasn't ashamed to admit that yes, she had felt a little inferior, watching this pinnacle of human beauty as she descended the stairs, looking to all like a piece of divine artwork. Unmistakably related to Tamaki, for who could mistake that noble bone structure, those wide eyes, even the soft waves of blonde hair?

 

If his cousin's appearance had been shocking, then when Haruhi had turned to Tamaki, an electrical charge had run through her heart at his shattered expression, horrified by what he had seen for reasons she couldn't understand but merely guess at, seeing how awfully his grandmother had treated him.

 

(Days later, she would coax out of him what had scared him so.

 

"She didn't look like my cousin," he would say, staring blankly down at clasped hands. "The girl I remember... she was gappy teeth, wide smile, loud laugh. That kind of girl. You could see her spirit, her own unique fire in everything she did. The girl on the steps... I couldn't see anything in her eyes. They'd done something to that spark, smothered it. Killed her fire."

 

Destroyed her spirit. Haruhi would think back to the moment when her own eyes had locked with the other girl, and recall what she had seen. No fire, no spirit... but a certain kind of straight-backed, worn-down discipline. Defeatist determination, as if she intended to go down fighting.

 

Fighting what, Haruhi hadn't known, that is until the following night. Moments before the kiss, she had caught a glimpse of the girl's eyes— by his intake of breath next to her, she had known Tamaki had also. In vivid green, she had seen a spark of rebellion, small but strong and so plainly powerful and warm, scalding with the intensity of its heat.)

 

Tamaki's grandmother was also clearly instrumental in her granddaughter's divinity that day, going so far as to point it out verbally to him as Haruhi and the other Hosts overheard.

 

"Look at her, child," she had said, eyes following her now sole heir as the woman mingled, every facet of her as beautiful as to be crafted by divine hands, not a hair out of place in the cascade of immaculate pale golden curls wrapping over her neck to rest on one shoulder, outliers pinned back above the curve of her ears as not to obscure her face. As she turned, seemingly unknowing of the many entranced gazes fixed upon her from various denizens of the room, they could all see the twinkle of a delicate glass rose holding the curls back, tinted a dusty pink that matched the flowers of her dress. In such an outfit, it was impossible to mistake her relation to Tamaki, whose propensity for pink roses was known universally around the school.

 

The old woman continued. "Look at her. Aesthetically perfect, in every way imaginable."

 

_Unlike_ _you_. The words went unsaid, yet to everyone in earshot, they may as well have been screamed.

 

At the time, Haruhi's mind had been drawn back to snapshots of an earlier conversation between Tamaki and his father, unintentionally overheard.

 

"Your capriciousness carries a high price, Tamaki... and now, I hear that your cousin Masako, diligent as she has proven herself, may have been able to sway your grandmother's favour and secure her own inheritance."

 

At his grandmother's words, Tamaki had looked shattered with the perceived betrayal of his own cousin forcing his disinheritance, the revelation of just how much she had changed under familial pressure to surpass, to inherit.

 

Even on the last night of the fair, the night on which the scandal had been kicked off, his cousin had looked immaculate, though rather more provocative than the preceding day. Her dress was scarlet, straps falling deliberately off the shoulder to reveal a large section of her shoulders and back, the pale olive tone to her skin both exaggerated and complemented by the hue of the fabric falling just short of her knees. Her fingernails, Haruhi noted, were different to the previous day, this time a matte wine-red chosen no doubt to complement her clothing. Her shoes, too, were different: glossy black, with red soles peeking through each step she took.

 

Just as the day before, the girl turned, and there nestled in the meticulously arranged braids that made up her hair that night, Haruhi spotted the royal blue of a single iris flower, beautifully contrasting with the rest of the outfit.

 

Then the girl who looked to all the world the absolute pinnacle of human perfection had promptly proceeded to kiss a princess and elope to the U.S.A., leaving her cousin and uncle confused and worried behind her.

 

It was lucky to say the least that Yuzuru had received Masako's new phone number, lest the two had thought her unsafe and brought in law enforcement to resolve the situation.

 

Now, as the crowd parts, and Haruhi lays her eyes on Masako Bianchi for the first time in half a decade, she thinks that something has gone _right_.

 

So far from the perfect vision of before, the woman is no less beautiful— perhaps even more so, in a shoulderless crimson crop top and short tennis skirt, Ayanokoji's hand sitting firmly on her waist in a symbol of possession to all surrounding. Haruhi sees the bands first out of all the Hosts (save for maybe Kyoya) and realises that maybe they did elope. The second thing she notices is the admiring glances sent at the woman's figure by the other denizens if the airport, and she thinks _huh_ , _maybe_ _Ayanokoji's_ _possessiveness_ _is_ _warranted_ _here_ _after_ _all_.

 

Then Tamaki is rushing forward to embrace his flesh and blood, and Haruhi notices a bright red rose tucked behind one ear, in loose golden waves against sun-kissed skin, and she knows that between these two at least, _everything_ _will_ _be_ _alright_.


End file.
